


if your heart wears thin (i will hold you up)

by theclaravoyant



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Sleep Deprivation, hurt comfort, torture mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: For his advanced and unique scientific expertise, Fitz is held captive and subjected to sleep deprivation. As his resolve threatens to waver, Daisy appears to him, and helps him make it until rescue.Canon compat until 4x02. Set in the near future. Contains non-graphic torture (sleep deprivation).





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Fitz & Daisy + "Come home with me."

They separated him from Radcliffe as soon as they could. They wrestled and dragged him down the hallways and away, and though Fitz could hear Radcliffe calling after him, he was near paralysed with fear. Cold sweat trickled down his face and neck, and an invisible hand seemed to clench around his throat. He remembered being strapped to a chair, listening to Jemma scream and being completely helpless, useless to aid or comfort her.

Would they try that with Radcliffe? If so, what would Fitz do? And if not – or if Radcliffe gave in, which seemed likely given his tendency for self preservation thus far – then what would their captors do with Fitz? Kill him?

They shoved him through a doorway in front of them, and let him stagger for his own footing. One of them sneered at him. But neither of them laid their hands on him again. Instead, they laughed, and closed the door – heavy metal, it echoed in the hall as it clanged shut.

Fitz waited a few seconds, to be sure they were gone, and then bent double, trying to breathe away the crippling fear as his lungs started to feel especially small.

“It’s okay,” he murmured to himself, the sound of his own voice calming him; remind him they hadn’t won. __Keep it together.__ “It’s okay.”

As his breathing deepened, Fitz studied the room. He started with the door. Heavy metal. Probably a steel alloy. A slot for meals. Either the space they were in was designed for prisoners, or had been adapted, probably from some sort of industrial setting. It was all thick and heavy-set: not good for the carriage of sound, or any manipulation tactics that relied upon that. Good.

Fitz nodded to himself, and crossed his arms over his chest, pressing one hand into his own shoulder. The pressure, along with coaxing his mind onto a problem-solving track, helped distract him from the fear, and eventually his muscles began to unlock. He walked the boundary of the room, studying it.

There was a camera in the corner, on and working, judging by its little green light. He had to assume it had the power to swivel and zoom, and that they could watch him at all times. It could possibly even perform special scans or initiate responses to things he did – it didn’t look fancy enough for that, but if he were the head of a high tech low morality science company trying to intimidate people into sharing information, he’d make his technology as ambiguous as possible.

The walls didn’t seem anything special either, though. Rough concrete. Old. Impressively and mercifully dry, and surprisingly clean for…whatever this was. It was just a room. Hardly a prison cell. How long did they expect to hold him here?

Wringing his hands, Fitz took a deep breath, and stared into the camera as if it were his captor’s eyes.

“Excuse me,” he said, as smoothly and confidently as he could muster. “I’d like to go to the bathroom.”

He received no reply. Not so much as a blink of the camera’s light. Nothing. For hours.

When they came later with a tray of food, they kicked a bucket through the door. Fitz had a feeling that was all the answer he was going to get.

\--

That night, Fitz couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned. The cold, hard ground was hardly welcoming but he could handle that. And the dusty air. And even having to piss in a bucket, on camera, as dirty as that made him feel. But he still hadn’t heard anything about Radcliffe, or where they were, or why they were being held here. Something about AIDA, that much had been fairly obvious, but what? Did they want her technology? Radcliffe had already done the hard yards; why couldn’t they just steal his research and be done with it? Fitz doubted Radcliffe had the pride or the foresight to destroy it. But he’d been wrong before. He might even be wrong about who’d kidnapped them. With so many players on the board, it was hard to keep track.

Either way, Radcliffe was the key. What did they want Fitz for? Collateral? A backup? Artificial intelligence?

A shiver ran over Fitz’ skin. And then another. And after a few seconds it stopped feeling like shivers and started feeling like bugs. He could hear them, scuttling and scratching. Suddenly they were everywhere, pouring in from every opening. He could hear them over the pounding of his heart in his ears as he tried to back away from them. What kind of sick torture was this? Bugs? Was he about to be eaten alive?

The door burst open all of a sudden, and his heart leapt to see Simmons’ face, frightened though she was.

“Fitz!” she gasped, reaching out to him.

Then he realised, her hair was up in a neat ponytail he hadn’t seen for months. Her dress was dark blue, with its crisp white collar. A dress that was long gone by now. Her frame was small and young, lacking the presence if not the confidence that he had grown familiar with.

“It’s not real,” he realised. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his shoulder again, breathing deeply until the buzzing and tingling faded.

Breathing in and out slowly, picturing Simmons’ face – the false Simmons, the giveaway Simmons – he kept the hallucinations at bay. They bombarded him for the rest of the night; bugs and blood and drowning – oh, drowning, that was the worst – and he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever sleep again when the door was flung open for real.

His visitor was tall, imposing. They wore heavy combat boots and a jacket that obscured the form of their upper body. They also wore what Fitz suspected was a Watchdog mask, and when they squatted in front of him, they put it inches from his face.

“Doctor Fitz,” they growled, their voice artificially distorted. “It doesn’t have to be this way. We have a bed and a meal for you, if you comply.”

Immediately, Fitz was tempted to point-blank refuse. Instead, he glared into the cold, soulless eyes of the mask.

“Comply with what?”

“You are valuable,” his captor explained. “There are many services you could provide. No doubt you will find some more palatable than others.”

“Couldn’t get what you needed from Radcliffe, eh?” Fitz snorted, but really, it was frustrating not being able to see the speaker’s face, to get a read on where he – or Radcliffe – stood.

“Doctor Radcliffe has served his purpose. It is up to you now, whether you would prefer to give us the AIDA technology, or the cure.”

“The cure?”

“For the Inhumans. The monsters. The __cure.”__

Fitz felt his gut twist. He wanted to back away, but clenched his fist in resistance.

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Then perhaps we will have to seek Doctor Simmons to help us instead. In the mean time, consider your options. And enjoy breakfast.”

The Watchdog dumped a tray in front of Fitz, and kicked it toward him as they stood up to leave. Fitz reached for it eagerly. He’d burnt a lot of energy off, tossing and turning and fighting all night.

Before he took a bite, it hit him. He’d been drugged.

All his hallucinations – usually they were specific. People. Things. They fit into the world around them. These had all been sensations. Sensations he’d associated with fear, anxiety, stress and depression, brought to life. It was classic Cold War Conspiracy material. LSD, or even fear serum…it was possible. Simmons had even worked with its proxies, once upon a time, though she had never personally witnessed the horrific things it could apparently make a person do. Climb the walls. Scratch at their own skin, believing there was something underneath. Just the thought of it was enough to put Fitz off his appetite.

He put the sandwich, such as it was, back on the tray. They could see him do it, of course – he couldn’t trick them into thinking he’d eaten, at least not with so little prior planning – but he figured, let them see. They didn’t seem to care much for his welfare anyway.

Then he got to thinking about _why._ Why drug him, if they wanted him to help them? Why risk his mind, if that’s what they wanted to use?

Unless they honestly believed he’d cave before he lost it. What if they were just using it to make him scared? Burn him out? Keep him awake?

 _We have a bed,_ they’d offered. Not freedom. Not safety. A bed.

Fitz pressed his lips together to resist a smile. He was onto something here.

He felt out a patch of concrete as if he had a lot of choice in places to lie down. He stretched and turned and curled up on the floor, like a cat. He closed his eyes. It was still cold and unpleasant and his stomach was growling, but he’d been awake for a good solid 24 hours by now, and he had the added goal of sticking it to his captors by sleeping. Even a minute would be a victory.

But he didn’t even get that.

Sirens blared and music began to play, loud and crackly like they hadn’t quite hit the right radio frequency. Lights grew to bright, stunning white and dimmed to near dark again, rapidly, almost like a strobe. Fitz pressed his hands to his ears and tried not to cry out against the assault.

Sitting up seemed to satisfy them. Or perhaps it was the way his whole frame rattled. The sound and lights faded, back into silence and muted dimness. The camera continued to stare, unfazed, and Fitz wondered about the expressions of the people behind it. He could imagine them smirking at each other, laughing, as he’d been tempted to do earlier. They’d just let him know that they were onto him too, and the real battle was just beginning.

\--

They offered him food a few more times: once in the morning and once at night, or so he assumed. Like clockwork. Until the third day. Part of Fitz preferred it that way. It was so much easier not to eat when the food was simply not being offered. _Three weeks,_ he chanted to himself. _A person can survive three weeks without food._

But not without sleep.

And certainly not without water.

“Drink up, Doc,” the Watchdog insisted, pressing the glass to his lips. Fitz almost moaned aloud at the soft, gentle feel of the water against his skin. And the smell. He’d never noticed water had a smell before. Not drinking water anyway.

“We’ll give ya the water for free,” the Watchdog insisted. “No use to anybody if you’re dead.”

Fitz drank, ravenous. Perhaps they found his desperation comical, but if they did, they didn’t show it. They just waited until he was done, watched him for a few extra seconds, and then took the glass away and left the room.

Fitz gasped. He’d downed the whole glass in one breath and despite his gratitude, his lungs burned. He wiped the back of one shaking hand against his lips, to make sure he’d consumed as much of the water as possible. Then he resumed the position that he had taken to over the last few days: hugging his knees, back against the wall, a combination of sharp and soft that provided both awareness and comfort. He could almost trick himself into thinking he was willingly staying awake, holding himself like this.

“Just a little longer,” a voice insisted. Not his own. And, surprisingly, not Jemma’s.

“Daisy?”

Fitz looked around. At first, he couldn’t see her. And then, there she was.

She had on the grey jumper she’d been quarantined in back when she’d first got her powers. Her face was slightly reddened and teary, and her hair long and matte for want of care.

“Hold on, Fitz,” she insisted, though she was a few feet away and it seemed she couldn’t come any closer. She met his eyes firmly, hand resting against an invisible glass wall between them. “I’m coming for you. We all are.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” She nodded earnestly, trying to reinvigorate him. He smiled weakly, appreciating the effort, but without the energy for much else. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to instill her face in his memory. It was so good to see her again… and even though she wasn’t real, not this her anyway, at least this was from a place of love. His fear and anger had been too, he supposed, but still… when – if? – he ever saw her again, he was determined to apologise, hear her out, and give her a hug so long and so deep she’d have to beg him to let go. He smiled to himself, imagining it, and felt some of his exhaustion lift.

Then the sirens and the music and the flashing lights started again. Fitz’ eyes snapped open and he rolled his head toward the camera.

“YES ALL _RIGHT!”_ he yelled, and they cut off again.

Haluci-Daisy laughed, and nodded, watching him with admiration in her eyes.

“That’s my boy.”

\--

They came in more often after that. Perhaps they were getting desperate, or perhaps Fitz just told himself that (or had Haluci-Daisy tell him that) to make himself feel like he had a chance. Either way, he was winning. Unless of course their desperation was born from the fact that he was considerably worse off than he thought he was. Now that would have been saying something.

Going on five days, Fitz hadn’t eaten in four. He was starting to be able to feel his ribs with a little too much sharpness for comfort. At least it reduced his required bucket trips, which was especially handy since he could hardly stand up any more. He hadn’t slept either, and by now, his head was a constant state of migraine; a throbbing pain in the back of his head, stabbing pain behind his eyes, and vision that somehow managed to be glittery and blurred at the same time. Not that there was much to see.

Fortunately, his captors seemed to be taking pity on him. They no longer blasted the sounds and light at him just for closing his eyes. They still did it every few hours, just in case, but in between was relative respite. Even when they came in to question him, they didn’t force him to look at them directly, and they spoke more softly than they had done before.

Fitz still refused. He refused to hand over AIDA, for all the things she could be used for. He refused to hand over the cure. Even by the end of the fifth day, when he’d replaced all cogent thought with murmuring, __I didn’t tell them anything, I won’t tell them anything, Daisy. There’s nothing wrong. There’s nothing wrong with you.__

He could barely feel his own limbs by this point. He was hardly cognisant of any of the world around him. He could only feel the wall – a reminder he was still alive, and in between the waves of migraine, he sought out Daisy’s face. She could get closer now; the invisible wall was gone. She knelt beside Fitz, holding his hand, asking him questions. _Where’s Radcliffe? How’s Simmons? Is the new Star Wars any good?_ He didn’t have the energy to answer, not even really in his head, but it gave him something to hold onto, instead of wondering how many _just a little longers_ this was going to take.

\--

That night, Fitz fell asleep. He hadn’t even really noticed, until he was woken by something. Some movement, some sound, he wasn’t sure. Possibly both. The world swam around him, violently disorienting. He felt sick. Where were the sirens? Had they given up? Had he won?

The door was flung open, and Fitz could have thrown up, had he the energy or the stomach contents for it.

_Not again, I can’t do this again._

He curled up, shaking. No more questions. No more hallucinations. No more, no more, no more, he didn’t have the strength for it. He covered his head with his hands, silently begging for mercy.

“Fitz?”

 _Daisy._ He squeezed his eyes shut. Still no sirens. What was happening?

“Fitz, where’s Radcliffe? Fitz?”

 _No more, no more, no more,_ he begged, on a loop, in his head.

“Oh my god – are you okay?”

A hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him.

“Fitz! It’s Daisy. Look at me, it’s Daisy. Look. Look, look, look.” She clicked her tongue gently, coaxing him to uncurl and fix his dazed, exhausted eyes on her. Her and her clear, bright eyes and her fierce cut hair and her sleek black uniform. Her hero’s uniform. She’d come for him, just like she’d promised.

She put a hand on his face. Gaunt. Grey with exhaustion and rough with stubble. He struggled to keep his eyes focused on her, and his lips trembled with words that he couldn’t get out.

“You’re okay,” she assured him. “You can relax. I’m here, we’re all here.”

She waved up at the camera, calling for help, and then turned her attention back to Fitz. As gently as she could, she pulled his head into her lap and held him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she whispered. “I’ll never turn my back on you. Okay? Not ever. I am always, always here for you. I will always come for you.”

Fitz nodded. He couldn’t explain to her that deep down he’d always known that to be true. The thought didn’t even occur to him in the moment: his mind was fuzzy, static, still not sure if this was real or even if he cared. Was he free? Had he won? _No more, no more._ A plea, or a celebration?

He trembled, and tried to focus on Daisy. The solid feeling of her legs under him. Her breathing. She pressed his shoulder and he almost melted with delight.

“You’re real,” he murmured.

“Really real,” she promised. “And really proud of you. A lot of people are safe because you kept your mouth shut. Thousands of people. You did good.”

“Didn’t…nothing…”

“You survived,” Daisy assured him. “Sometimes that’s all you’ve gotta do.”

Help arrived, in the form of a very concerned Simmons and Mack. They brought food – real and safe, if simple, food – and water. A fresh shirt and some other supplies they cast aside upon seeing the state Fitz was in up close. They could deal with all that later. As a team, they made sure he ate and drank, and though at first it created a considerable mess, eventually he managed to get and keep some down.

Simmons kissed him on the forehead.

“I’m going to get a stretcher and prep an IV for the trip home, okay? You stay right here.”

Mack gathered up the rest of the supplies. Daisy put her hand back on Fitz’ shoulder. He’d long since sat up, propped between her and Mack and the wall, but she’d never broken contact with him. It seemed to be the only thing convincing him this whole rescue was real, and she wasn’t about to argue with that.

When the stretcher arrived, Daisy took a deep breath, and looped Fitz’ arm over her shoulders.

“Alright, here we go. Are you ready? Come on.”

She stood, hauling Fitz to his feet.

“Just a few steps, here we go,” she cooed. “Come on. That’s the way.”

She lowered him back to the stretcher and helped Simmons guide him into a safe and comfortable lying position. He finally closed his eyes, and Daisy squeezed his hands.

“Come home with me,” she added under her breath.

Mack met her eye with a long, silent, weighted look. By the time Simmons looked up from readying the stretcher, the look was gone. Daisy didn’t let go of Fitz’ hand.

They all walked out together.


End file.
